At this particular moment in time Fergus couldn’t claim to be certain of many things, but he was fairly certain that the floor wasn’t meant to be moving like that. As he watched it the entire structure seemed to be rolling from one side to the other along with the walls and ceilings, but he could only focus on one thing at a time so he was ignoring those for the moment. He wasn’t near the walls and even in this state he could recognise the fact that if the ceiling decided to kill him then there wasn’t much he could do about it. No, it was definitely the floor that wanted watching. He thought. Nothing seemed to make much sense at the moment. Or it did until he started thinking about it. Why was that?

It was the sort of question that required liberal amounts of alcohol to even start considering answering, and the flask was duly raised to his lips once more. The liquid was dark brown in colour, and smelt strongly. What exactly it smelt strongly of was a bit hard to say as it had a tendency to swiftly overpower and disable the sense of smell in anyone who came near it, leaving only the impression that it smelt strongly. There was a similar effect on the sense of taste – as Fergus swallowed the liquid all he could feel was a burning sensation in the back of his throat which made his eyes water and pushed the question from his mind as he started to cough as well. Not small coughs, but large ones that had him gagging by the end of them. If he hadn’t been the worse for drink at this point, he might have thought that he had to stop doing this because it simply couldn’t be good for him – but as he was in fact too far gone to notice how drunk he was he didn’t think of that at all. Just felt miserable and raised the flask again.

Any potential observer could have told that the prince was getting close to being drop dead drunk, which was why Fergus had retreated to his most private rooms after making sure no one was going to want him in the near future, as much as he could do anyway, and told the guards to only let someone in if it was important (suggesting that his definition of important was, for the next twenty hours at least, nothing short of a full blown invasion and god help anyone who disturbed him for anything less). No one knew about these late night drinking sessions, and Fergus intended to keep it that way because he very much doubted that Aedan would like him doing it and if Aedan didn’t like him doing something then he was in trouble. Or was it just because he didn’t want to share his moving floor? That was special, that was. No one else in the entire world and a floor that moved like his. It was a wonder he was staying upright really.

A wonder to anyone who could see him as well. He was swaying from side to side, eyes unfocused with a confused yet happy sort of look. The flask in his hand was an old one, one that had apparently once belonged to some relative of his father’s and used on army campaigns and it showed signs of wear. So did his clothes. They were even worse than his usual ones in terms of style, even if Fergus didn’t realise what a mess he was making now he knew it when he had to try and clear up the next morning to stop people finding out. The tunic and hose were old practice gear held together by thin threads and completely covered in stains. Damp patches showed where Fergus hadn’t quite managed to navigate the distance between his mouth and the flask. He hadn’t bothered with shoes, in some faint belief that while he was drunk he’d never go out without shoes on and as he wouldn’t be able to put them on or even find them then he wouldn’t go out. When he thought about it – drunk or sober – it seemed pretty silly, but he still did it.

Once in this state it was quite easy for Fergus’s alcohol drenched brain to think that he was in a sort of protective bubble. Mostly because nothing seemed as threatening any more, and the world generally seemed a brighter place. Sometimes there were even pretty colours. So if someone actually came in he wouldn’t be alarmed until the hangover had lifted enough for him to think. That could take a while – Fergus believed that he’d built up a sort of tolerance for them over the years, but they still felt like the devil himself had decided to use him as a whipping boy. But once the pain had faded, the pressures were reapplied and the paranoia set back in, time spent feeling vaguely happy looked too good an opportunity to pass up.

{OOC: Apologies for the late post.}

Leon stalked through the dark and empty corridors of the Keep, looking around and wondering if he had walked the very same hallway earlier that morning. He was finding it harder and harder each night to sleep, without a clear reason as to why. He could go to bed at the brink of exhaustion, yet find some small meager uncomfortable detail that would annoy him and keep him from sleep. He was getting more and more aggravated and annoyed, wondering exactly why he felt this place as foreboding. Maybe it's just so new to me, he said with a sigh. He normally would go on late night rides, but being too anxious about his horse knowing it needed sleep, he decided to give her the much needed rest. Leon was content on roaming the halls late at night, hoping that somehow familiarity could provide comfort after all.

After turning a corner, Leon recognized approximately where he was. It was the part of the Keep where the Prince resided, although Leon never really went inside. Thinking it was of no interest, Leon planned on going back to his quarters when he heard something ahead of him. It was a deep hacking cough, which sounded to Leon as if the Prince was choking. Oh no!, Leon thought. He raced down the hallway, trying to reach the Prince's room as quickly as possible as his heart pounded in his chest. Thoughts were racing through his head, each trying to be at the front of his mind.

What will I do? I don't know how to save people!

I should turn back! Go get help!

But it might be too late!

Just go i-

Leon's thoughts came to a complete stop as he barged his way into the Prince's room, only to find him in a drunken stupor. Leon didn't know what to think. All he did was stand there, dumbfounded as he looked on to a drunken Prince holding a weathered flask in his hand and the heavy smell of liquor radiating off of him. The only reaction Leon's shocked mind could muster was a barely spoken mutter, "G-good evening, Prince."

The door had never been banged open before, and Fergus was left staring at it in surprise with the flask half raised to his lips. What with the walls and floor moving he’d forgotten that there was a door there in the first place. How strange. Forgetting there was a door there. You’d have thought you’d remember how to get in and out of the room even if you weren’t intending to go anywhere, but apparently not.

Eventually his attention focused on the man who’d banged the door open. Tall, blond hair, not one of the guards, a bit hard to tell anything else. Everything seemed so fuzzy. But he’d said good evening, and it was polite to say it back, even if he had to say it twice before even he could make sense of the noises coming out of his mouth. “Good evening.” Had he met this man? What was he doing here? Something in the back of his head was jumping up and down and screaming, but the alcohol was blocking it out very effectively and all the majority of Fergus felt was that there was something slightly off. No sense in worrying about it though. For a moment he considered a polite, educated reply but after trying to get his head around the first few words he gave up and went for something blunter, but much easier. “Who’re you?”

His voice was heavily slurred and he was still swaying from side to side, eyes unfocused with a good natured smile on his face. Things were slipping in and out of focus in front of him, and the floor was still moving when he glanced down at it. How was this man staying upright? He couldn’t see clearly but he did think he’d recognise the outline of a skirt if he saw it and it didn’t look like the person was wearing a skirt, ergo it was a man. Probably. He wouldn’t put running around in trousers past some ladies, and scholars robes could look like very straight dresses, he supposed. No chance of getting him in one.

When the man’s face was in focus he looked distressed, but still not familiar. Fergus was growing more and more certain that he was meant to recognise the man from somewhere, but he still couldn’t place the face. As when he was sober he was fairly convinced that he wouldn’t recognise his own sisters in this state that might not be saying much. There was no evidence as to what he was distressed about, so maybe he was like Fergus. Able to worry and fret over things that seemed to melt away with every mouthful of the foul liquid.

Being in that state was no way to be. It couldn’t possibly be a happy one. That was why he’d started drinking in the first place, both tonight and years ago. He thought, anyway, as he took another gulp of the liquid, repeated the process of coughing as it hit the back of his throat. Grinning at the man, whoever he was, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and held the almost empty flask out to him, or in his general direction anyway. “You don’t notice the taste after a while. Sort of don’t notice much after a while.” He giggled, nodding his head emphatically. It was good, if you were worried you forgot everything and then the world seemed much better. Also, once in this state, such a thing as hangovers faded from existence, which was perhaps not such a good thing but allowed the feeling of endless goodwill to go on uninhibited.

"No P-prince, I think I'm fine for now," Leon managed to stutter between his teeth, his brain still not quite managing to deal with the situation at hand. "I'm L-lord Leon Heaton, heir to my father's fief. It's an honor to m-meet you."

Leon was going completely nuts, not knowing what to do. On the other hand, the prince seemed so completely unconcerned, going as far as to offer him some of his drink. By the looks of him, Leon could easily tell that Fergus had been drinking for a while. He was practically wearing most of the alcohol on his shirt and collar, and his speech was heavily slurred.

Leon shook his head, trying to sort out his thoughts. He sat down on Fergus' bed, not really sure what was happening. And the heavy smell wasn't helping. So he decided to use to most direct way he knew.

"Why are you drinking?" Leon asked, before he even thought about it. "Oh w-wait! I didn't mean it like that! Of course I wasn’t insulting you! I mean I meant it as an inquisitive question! No! I mean I meant it as a friendly question. You don't have to answer!" Leon clamped a hand over his mouth before he could blurt anymore. He sighed. I'm in for it now, he thought.

When Leon refused the drink Fergus shrugged, pulling his arm back towards him. His loss. It wasn’t as if the stuff was expensive or fine, it was cheap and nasty enough for Fergus to understand someone turning their noses up at when he was sober. Its ability to get him completely drunk fast was what he liked about it, that and he’d grown strangely fond of it over the years.

An expression somewhere between confusion, thoughtful and a frown took over his face as he tried to remember this Lord Leon Heaton. No recollection whatsoever of the person, the name sounded a little familiar but not familiar enough for him to be able to place it. With a bright smile he shook his head, not looking the least bit apologetic for not having heard of the heir to the Heaton fief. “Nope, sorry, don’t know you don’t think.” Then there followed another word, it was meant to be ‘honoured’ but it was mangled and slurred so badly that no one would have been able to guess what it actually was.

Things then started happening very fast. The man sat on his bed, asked a question then set off at a fast ramble, only stopping when he clamped his hand over his mouth. Fergus’s nose had wrinkled fairly early on in the process and most of the ramble hadn’t sunk in at all, although he’d understood the initial question. “You should talk to Lady Elayne, she rambles.” He snickered. “No one would get a word in sideways.”

Suddenly he was serious again, albeit frowning slightly comically and looking as if he wasn’t trusting his mouth to say what his head was thinking. “I’m drinking because I’m mise... miseble...” his tongue clicked in evident annoyance at his inability to say the word. “Sad.” He finally said, a note of triumph in his voice that he’d managed to find a word meaning roughly the same thing that was also pronounceable, celebrating with another gulp of the drink. "Why're you here?"

{OOC:Sorry for the wait}

Leon's head was swimming as he heard the Prince's reply. He's miserable, he thought in shock. How could a Prince be miserable? They should be happy and glad and smart and...not drunk, he thought as he slowly went over everything that had happened. He even barely registered the joke the Prince made, even though he didn't know the person that well.

"I u-umm," Leon's mouth opened and closed, his words lost to him like the Prince (although for an entirely different reason). Leon shook his head, while rapidly breathing in and out of his mouth. "You know what?" he asked, not really caring anymore. He needed to calm down, and shock had finally managed to convince him of this. "I've changed my mind. I need some of that," he said before just simply grabbing the flask and dumping the contents into his mouth.

The stench was overbearing, and the taste knocked out all his other sense. For a moment he forgot everything and just simply sat there, his head spinning in circles from the heavy drink. "Y-you know what?" he said. "This isn't actually t-that bad," he managed to blurt before he launched into a coughing fit.

((No worries, it's a busy time of year))

If Fergus had been sober he’d probably have objected to the flask being snatched from his hand, he’d also probably have given some sort of warning. Anyone could smell that the drink was strong but there was really no describing just what sort of effect it had. There was no real warning for the potency either, although Leon would probably find out how strong it was soon enough.

As he wasn’t sober he remained seated on the floor with an amused look as Leon downed the liquid, letting his hand fall to the floor beside him and his head loll back on the bed. The ceiling was still moving and Leon was swaying alarmingly in his vision, but he wasn’t that worried about it. Things had a way of working out. There wasn’t anything he could do about it anyway.

“’S good.” He agreed in the moment before Leon started coughing. Was that what he sounded like? No wonder Leon had seemed worried. Reaching up he tried to thump Leon on the back, it was a well meant gesture even if it wasn’t a helpful one and he ended up clumsily hitting Leon’s side rather than his back. Oh well, it was the thought that counted. “Don’t see a lung yet.” He said after a particularly hard cough. There wasn’t any blood either.